


Sportsball

by MistressOfMalplaquet



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, I mean really really bad, Jughead is good at one thing though, being really bad at gym, nudge nudge say no more
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:14:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27593951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressOfMalplaquet/pseuds/MistressOfMalplaquet
Summary: Jughead Jones is about to flunk out of school because of his gym grade. Enter Betty Cooper, who has her work cut out for her as she tries to find some physical activity he's good at.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 37
Kudos: 98
Collections: 8th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees





	Sportsball

It’s 8 AM on a Saturday morning, the holy time of sleep and waking to make and eat an enormous sandwich filled with bologna and cheese and ham and lettuce and gobs of mayo. Then more sleep.

But no, Jughead is up and dressed and shivering on a playing field like a lost soul on the seventh circle of personal hell. And it’s all for one stupid grade, the stupidest of stupid grades. Gym! When will he ever use kickball or calisthenics in actual real life? Never, that’s when. But because Stonewall Prep insists on churning out well-rounded students, everyone has to pass Phys-Ed.

As a result FP has hired him an actual tutor to show him how to be good enough in gym to pull a C. A Phys Ed tutor. It can’t, Jughead reflects, get worse than this.

As he kicks the field, a girl made out of sunlight emerges from underneath the bleachers. Her blond hair is caught back in a swinging ponytail, mile-long legs emerge from tiny athletic shorts, and she emits a crackling, blinding energy. As soon as she sees Jughead, she begins to wave and breaks into a sprint.

Betty Cooper. They used to hang out together all the time before FP’s security firm got a huge contract and Jughead was sent to Stonewall Prep. For a while he missed her terribly, missed the days spent by the river talking endlessly about everything and nothing, or nights in Archie’s room playing videogames. Then Stonewall happened, and slowly Jughead forgot about Riverdale.

“Hi!” Betty stops just short of hugging him and pats his shoulder instead. “Boy, was I ever surprised to get a call from your dad. Thought you snobby, snooty types had moved to Park Place while we were stuck on Baltic Avenue.”

Jughead snorts. He remembers long Monopoly games and how Betty always maneuvered her way into the cheapest properties, loading them with houses and hotels until they became deadly spots to be avoided at all costs. “I still put my pants on one leg at a time, same as everyone else,” he declares.

“Good to know.” She becomes serious, obviously prepping to segue to her tutor role. “So your dad says you have to pass gym or you’ll fail junior year.”

“That’s an excellent summation of my personal hell,” he drawls. “And you get to be the kewpie doll who drags my grade up to passing level over the next few months.”

A shade passes over her eyes, fleeting as a minnow, and for a moment he’s sorry for his dry wit. But Betty recovers quickly and thumps his arm again. “Guess what? I talked to your teacher, and he agreed to letting you pass if we can find a sport you enjoy today. Something you’re good at. It could be anything! Soccer, or basketball, or softball…”

“Betty.” He’s grown taller than her, Jughead realizes, so much so that she has to look up when he says her name. It makes her bright face look like a sunflower, tracking daylight across the sky. “I’m – not that great at sports. In fact, I’m really pretty bad.”

“Oh, pshaw.” She waves away his objection and gestures to the field. “We could start with track. That’s simple, and we can take things one at a time.”

“Ugh.” Reflecting that he might as well get it over with, Jughead lets his backpack fall to the grass and spreads his arms wide. “Okay, so what do we do? Just run?”

“Well, you need to change into sneakers first.” Betty nudges his foot with hers. She’s wearing sneakers with low socks that have two cute little bobbles peeking out at her ankles. He, on the other hand, has on thick, clumpy motorcycle boots made out of thick black leather.

“Don’t have any with me.” Probably it would have been good to bring running shoes, except morning had arrived far too quickly.

“Oh!” Betty considers. “Well, running’s out then. But that’s okay! We’ll find something else you can do. There are batting cages by the bleachers - jeez, your school has everything! Riverdale High is lucky to have volleyball nets. But we could go and hit a few balls and see how you like it.”

Jughead already knows he’s going to hate it. But he picks up his pack and slouches after her. Betty launches into a nonstop flow of conversation, about a new student at Riverdale named Veronica who’s her best friend, how the cheerleaders need new uniforms but just can’t seem to raise enough money. How she writes in her diary every night and is learning to knit – “me knitting, can you believe that?” – and to take apart a car engine, how there’s another new student called Kevin who’s her other best friend…

“Kevin?” Jughead feels sweat drip down his back. “Who’s he?”

“Oh!” Apparently in an excess of enthusiasm, Betty stops and twirls on one toe. “The greatest guy ever. He has so much vision and energy. Riverdale has positively transformed since his arrival at our school. Speaking of which, you should come back to visit some time. I could show you around the old haunts, buy you a Pop’s burger…”

“I’m done with Riverdale,” he snaps. “Let’s just find my sport and get it over with.” Instantly he regrets his harsh tone, but there’s no erasing the spoken word. It’s why he prefers text.

Betty motions to the batting cage and puts down her huge bag to rummage in it. She removes a pair of gloves, helmet, and a bat. “Honestly, the whole trick here is to keep your eye on the ball. We’ll start with slow-pitch, but once you get better we can bump up the speed.”

With a great show of reluctance, Jughead puts on the gloves and helmet. Betty shows him how to hold the bat and crouch, weight on his rear leg to await the first pitch. Instantly he drops the bat and, as he bends down to retrieve it, the softball flies over his head.

“Wow, are you okay? No worries. That’s why we wear helmets, right?” Betty beams at him, her sunny disposition still in place. Neither Jughead’s surly attitude or his recent narrow escape from certain death have dampened her spirits. “Second time’s the charm!”

Second time is not the charm. Neither is third, fourth, fifth, or the one thousandth. Finally Jughead flings the bat in disgust, rips off both gloves and snarls, “No. No more. I’m done.”

“Why don’t we have a drink break and figure out what to try next?” Betty removes a frosty-looking Thermos, pops up the cap, and tilts up to drink. He swallows, trying not to look at the long line of her throat.

Naturally, he’s arrived on the field without water.

And, when he goes to the water fountain, there’s a smug little OUT OF ORDER sign duct-taped to the front.

Apparently batting is thirsty work. Jughead feels his tongue turn to shoe leather, his throat to sandpaper. When he turns, scrubbing one fist over his lips, Betty’s holding out another frosty bottle of sports drink. One corner of her mouth dimples as he takes it, screws off the top, and pours it down his throat.

“Something tells me you’re just not a softball man,” she muses. “We could try some soccer drills…” Betty’s voice dies out as Jughead looks up from his Frosty Lemon to glare at her. “Okay, no soccer. Probably volleyball is out as well.”

“You’re goddamn right it is.”

“Okay.” She seems to gather her inner chirpy-bird and squares her shoulders. “We’ll try tetherball! And archery, and yoga if those don’t work.”

#

Tetherball means not having to run or swing wildly at a pitch, but as far as Jughead’s concerned the spherical object on the end of a rope has a mind of its own as well as a personal grudge against him. After a few attempts, the ball careens around the pole and smacks Jughead on the back of his skull, pitching him face-forward into the grass.

During yoga, his back locks up and he nearly kicks Betty during his desperate flails to stay in the Plow pose.

“Guess we have to do archery,” he snaps. “That’s all we have left, right? Robin Hood and green jerkins and shit?”

“Archery…” Betty’s natural good humor seems to fade. “Ah…”

Jughead sucks his teeth. “Of course we can’t do archery. I’d probably shoot you in the butt. Just forget it, Betty – I’m going to fail out of school because of a stupid gym requirement. Might as well work for my old man’s security firm, because college obviously is not in the cards.” He turns away in disgust, ready to stride back to his dorm so he can start packing to leave.

“Now just wait a second.” Betty dashes after him and thrusts one hands through his elbow, forcing him to stop and look at her. “You’re the guy who chained yourself to City Hall, remember? You climbed a ladder to sneak me food when I was in lockdown, too, and you stuck with your dad until he stopped drinking and started his successful business. Just because we’re not going to do this today means it won’t ever get done.” He scoffs and tries to escape, but she persists. “I’ll come back to work with you next week, and the week after that, and eventually you will get your gym grade. Uh, it would help if you wore sneaks instead of motorcycle boots, though.”

“Pure sunshine, aren’t you?” he jeers. “Little Miss Cooper, always there to help even when no one asked.”

That familiar hurt look flashes over her face again, familiar because now Jughead remembers when saw it before: years before, when Betty made it clear to Archie that she was interested and got rejected offhand. In fact, the dumb lug probably never realized she was asking him to the dance.

And now Jughead is being just as stupid and careless as Archibald Andrews.

“Wait,” he says. Already Betty has turned away so he can’t see her eyes, as she kneels and pretends to be intent on packing her bag. “I didn’t – I’m sorry, Betts. Just ignore me. I’m tired and sweaty and really need a shower. You’re right. Let’s keep going and I’ll get that grade. Promise.”

With one graceful, fluid zip she closes her bag and hefts it onto one shoulder. “Tired, sweaty – and hungry, right?” Betty’s face lights up with her usual sunny smile. “I’d forgotten how cranky you got when you didn’t eat. Good thing I brought a buttload of food.”

#

They sit in Jughead’s dorm room in the light of green stained-glass windows, eating Betty’s famous turkey club sandwiches on paper plates. One bearded, marble bust of Victor Hugo frowns down at them from a high shelf.

Jughead’s hair curls damply into his neck, and Betty wears an old S t-shirt. After he returned from the bathroom she stated “I simply have to try the showers here, Juggie,” and now here she is, all clean and warm and smelling of shampoo.

As she takes another massive bite, one sleeve slides down to reveal one rounded shoulder and her sun-kissed skin. “I mean, three different kinds of soaps!” Betty raves. “And those towels should make all other towels ashamed to be called towels…”

He swallows the last of his sandwich, chases it with a long swallow of minted iced tea, and leans back on one elbow. They’re sitting on his bed since all the chairs are heaped with books. “Sorry today was such a disaster.” Jughead clears his throat, preparing to confess. “To be honest, I stayed out too late last night. Drank too much as well.”

Betty’s smile lights up her face, and she waves one arm so enthusiastically the mattress bounces. “Next time we’ll figure out what works. Maybe I can get your schoolboard to accept calisthenics as a … what are you staring at?” She stops and licks the corner of her mouth. “Do I have mayo on my face?”

No. She doesn’t have mayo on her face.

Jughead surges forward to cup her chin in both hands. “Is this okay,” he growls, feeling his blood race because what if she said No or Stop but she doesn’t, just gasps and pushes her plate out of the way.

“Of course it’s okay,” she giggles. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“What about Kevin?”

Her giggles erupt into a gale of laughter. “Gay,” she chokes out. “Kevin’s my best friend, and he’s gay, and I – mmph!”

Betty kisses like she does everything, with great enthusiasm and prowess. She retreats and tilts her head the other way as if she’s determined to learn Jughead’s mouth by heart.

It’s all so natural, the way she slides onto his lap and how his shirt slides off her arms to reveal – well. The most mouth-watering sight, rose-tipped breasts peaking under his tongue. She tastes like strawberries and young skin. Jughead feels her heels on his back in flex as though she preps for more sports.

He grins, flips her suddenly so she lands with a squeak among the pillows. “Tell me this is okay,” he demands, and when Betty nods he kisses her way down the long column of her throat. The sweet beauty of her breasts, that lovely little dip of her belly.

Between her thighs.

Betty’s skin is cool but warms instantly to his touch. Jughead remembers how beautiful her legs always were, even when he was clueless about girls he’d notice Betty in a little denim skirt. Years of soccer, track, and cheerleading have molded elegant muscle striating with pleasure as he kisses and licks his way down.

Her hands are in his hair, guiding him home as Yes Yes Yes slips from her lips. Betty’s flesh is moist from the shower and pleasure, sweet as candy.

Jughead, writer of crime fiction, likes to approach everything as a mystery. Betty’s slit, he thinks, is a lovely conundrum. His tongue seeks the spots that make her hum, make her clutch his hair, make her arch and gasp his name. Slightly off-center, a rapid rhythm like a bee, a hummingbird, a butterfly until Betty screams and he tastes the sweet gush of her release.

After that it’s child’s play to coax her into riding his face. Betty does so with gusto, clamping her legs together so he has to chase up into her with his tongue, simple for a guy who’s been eating hamburgers all his life. Jughead cups the luscious swell of her ass and marks how her hips move (in circles, like a belly dancer) and what rhythm she likes best (fast, then slow slow slow and fast again.)

She collapses on her side, and Jughead goes down on her one last time, letting her keep her thighs together since obviously it’s one of her kinks. He uses his mental notes to bring Betty to one final, screaming esctatic release before falling next to her on the bed. Arm draped over her waist, Jughead grins into his pillow.

For a moment they lie there, watched with severe disapproval by Victor Hugo. Cheerfully Jughead gives him the finger before stealing back his S t-shirt so he can wipe off his chin. Betty’s breath slows, and she curls into his chest.

“How about you?” she gasps. “Can’t I return the favor?”

“I’m pretty darn good right now.” Jughead can’t help laughing at her expression, surprise mingled with something like awe, and he gathers her so close their legs tangle and he can feel her hearts beat against him. “Listen. I spent the entire morning slaughtering several different forms of Phys Ed, so now I just want to lie here with you. Besides, that was the most fun I’ve had since… since a long time.”

“A long time, huh?” Betty settles herself more firmly within the circle of his arms. “Let’s nap for a bit, then you can find us dinner.” And as the room gets all silvery and sleepy, she giggles.

“And, by the way, I think we found your sport.”


End file.
